


Uninvited Guest

by faithlethalhane



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlethalhane/pseuds/faithlethalhane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghost/Living Person AU. When Shaw moves into her new apartment, she gets a little more than she's bargaining for. Mainly a ghost roommate with an odd sense of humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uninvited Guest

It takes you a long time to accept that your house is haunted. It’s little things that give it away at first. Sudden cold spots, faulty electrical equipment, sudden speaker static, fallen picture frames or books.

Other than that, though, your new apartment is great. Even the weird things don’t bother you so much. (not much bothers you, really, so, it worked out pretty well) Plus, your work kept you busy. Not much down time.

But her interactions become more frequent and more...personal.

And she only seems to  _ really _ surface when you have intimate company around.

The first time it happens, it is innocent. You kiss him and he folds for you, bends into whatever shape you want him to be and it is perfect, but he jerks away suddenly, ducking his head as though dodging something you couldn’t see.

“What is it?” you ask, frowning at the space behind him.

“I just...felt a pinch or something…” He, too, is frowning, rubbing at the back of his head in a distracted sort of way. “It was nothing.”

To say it killed the mood would be an understatement.

When he leaves, you close the door gently behind him, only to whip around, glaring up at the ceiling.

“Was that you?” you ask angrily, waving a threatening finger in a general sweep across the room.

She says nothing. It is either an affirmation or an avoidance. You haven’t really communicated much with a ghost before.

The second time it happens, your entire bookcase falls over. Needless to say, he tried babbling out an excuse as he stumbled toward the door.

“What is your  _ problem _ ?!” you hiss at her, before turning to him to try fixing the situation. “I guess I never installed it right,” you lie, “I swear this won’t happen again-”

But he is already out the door.

Huffing, you look up to the ceiling, annoyed. “You do know this isn’t doing anything, right?”

Across the room, the bookcase slowly lifts back to its standing position, all the books still scattered on the ground.

“You do realize I could just...go to his place…”

A book she had started picking up freezes mid-air. Slowly, it turns toward you, and you realize just in time what she is going to do. You duck as the book whizzes toward you, hitting the wall behind you with a loud thud.

You smirk. “Did I upset you?”

Another book rises into the air, and you chuckle. “I  _ did _ strike a nerve.”

She throws another book at you, and you laugh again as you dodge it. “I was kidding.”

The third book she had been preparing lowers a little.

“I won’t go behind your back. I promise.” The book trembles a little, and after a pause it drops to the floor, a slight breeze pushing the air around you as she moves across the room. She picks up a book behind you, carrying it over and holding it right in front of you.  _ Learning to Apologize with Sincerity. _

You exhale a laugh. “Are you apologizing or making fun of my reading material?”

She moves it gently closer, pressing it so softly into your hands you know the answer, but you aren’t letting her off that easily.

“Mmhmm, sure,” you mutter teasingly. “You just want me to clean up your mess.”

...

“Do you have a name?”

You aren’t sure where the question comes from, but there it is, hanging in the space around you, in the form of  _ your _ voice. You suppose you’ve been thinking about her in your spare time. But  _ ghost _ doesn’t seem so appropriate anymore.

You hope she can answer you. She doesn’t seem to have a voice, or a real one at least. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she never even  _ was _ a person. You have no idea how any of this works.

The marker on your whiteboard shakes as she picks it up, and she carries it over to you, walking through the dining room table to do so. She holds it in front of you, and you stare at it for a moment, not quite sure what she wants.

She waves it back and forth, as though impatient, and you laugh quietly. You put your spoonful of cereal in your mouth, holding the spoon between your teeth as you grab the marker and uncap it.

You grab the spoon back out of your mouth. “Is that what you wanted?”

But she is already walking away.

She moves the marker from the top right of the board to the bottom left.

You frown at it, eating another spoonful of cereal. “I have no idea what that means.”

Was there some reason she couldn’t just spell it? Did she forget the English language? Was she not allowed to use it by some divine rule?

Maybe ghosts were just cryptic like that. Or she had a very screwed up sense of humor.

You stand, walking closer to get a better look. The top of the mark starts high enough that you have to bend your neck back slightly to see it. Narrowing your eyes, you look between it and the marker still floating beside you.

“How tall are you anyway? Hold it as high as you can.”

The marker lifts to almost the top of the board. Looking up at it, you frown deeper, extending your arm above you as high as you can. You even rock onto your toes to try reaching it, to no avail.

“Are you cheating?  _ Floating _ , I mean? Do you even  _ stand _ on the ground?”

You think it’s a fair question. Although you don’t know if she even has a shape.

She draws a small ‘x’ next to you.

“Is that a no?” you ask distractedly, focusing back on the marker floating above your head.

You curl and uncurl your fingers as you stretch them higher, but there is still a few inches left. Huffing, you slump down.

Outside, the wind chimes ring.

It seems odd. They’re sort of...blocked from the wind. You only know this because in your two months of living here, they have not rung once.

“Was that you?”

The marker draws a small check mark next to the ‘x’.

“But you’re over here.”

Another check mark.

You groan. “God, it’s like twenty questions.” You glare up at the marker before trudging back to the table, grabbing the bowl and fishing out the last of the cereal into your spoon. “I hate twenty questions,” you mutter out before eating the final bite.

The wind chimes go off again.

You frown in their general direction. “Are you... _ laughing _ at me?”

Her check mark is bigger this time. Mockingly.

She was pretty lively for a dead girl.

“Cute.” You roll your eyes.

And you try to pretend it doesn’t sound absolutely ethereal.

...

It takes you almost a week to figure out the puzzle of her name. You waste so many nights googling “diagonal line meaning,” “linear symbols,” literally anything you can think of even minutely relevant. You think maybe she takes pity on you, feels bad for her impossible puzzle. (that or you’re just stupid).

After a few more aimless searches, you collapsed on your desk in a tired heap, groaning with your head resting on your forearm. This shouldn’t be hard. You’re a freaking  _ surgeon _ . 

A draft in the room draws your attention, and you lift your head to look for her, forgetting in the moment that you cannot see her. A button on your keyboard presses down, typing out a long string of one symbol.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

You smirk.

Backslash.

You can work with that. (at least slightly better)

…

You thought you could, at least. Elbows tucked firmly on the desk, fingers splayed across your temples and the sides of your head to keep it upright, eyes burning, you stare at the screen blankly.

At least you know her name isn’t Backslash.

Nor is it Slash, Oblique, or Stroke. As far as you know. The words sound too ridiculous to even leave your mouth. Once again, Wikipedia has failed you. But the more you search, the further away from the English language you get and the deeper into what you believe to be...computer language. 

You begin scanning definitions upon definitions of coding, programming, whatever it is, until you are staring at a word so hard it seems burned into the backs of your eyes.

Like it was  _ right _ .

“Root?”

Behind you, something clatters. You crane your neck to see that it was your flower vase that had fallen.

Spinning in the desk chair, you lean smugly against the backrest. “For a ghost, you’re pretty clumsy.”

She picks up the vase, pushing the dirt away until it is hidden by the vase itself. You snort. She was a real nerd. “So am I right? Your name is Root?”

A flower separates from its broken stem in the vase, floating over toward you in what you assume is her hand. She extends it to you, and you really have no choice but to take it. (that’s what you tell yourself)

“Pretty,” you mutter under your breath, staring down at the flower since there’s not much else to look at.

“Ridiculous name, but...pretty.”

You are bombarded with a whirlwind of loose dirt, and you shout in surprise, free hand shielding your face as you laugh. “Someone never learned to fight fair.”

…

Having a ghost roommate isn’t half bad, you find.

She’s quiet, doesn’t take up any space, but also seems to keep you company. You don’t have to be anything or feel anything for her. She just...exists, just like you do.

And although you will never admit it to her, you feel  _ better _ knowing she’s there. Knowing someone sees you. It’s strange. There is no particular  _ feeling _ to go with it, just a general betterness you cannot explain.

When you come home from a night shift, your eyes barely open as you stumble through the door, she is there. As you kick your shoes off and throw yourself onto the couch because the bed is just. too. far. away. She is there, pulling a blanket over your disorganized splay of limbs on the too small couch. Even as you are drifting off to sleep, she is there, in the faint sound of your front door lock clicking into place.

…

You get maybe four hours of sleep.

With your crusty eyes and aching body, you stand in the shower for almost an hour, rinsing off the hospital smell. 

You spend another ten minutes trying to see yourself in the fogged up mirror. You are so tired that you do not immediately see what she is drawing on it. The first is a circle, clean and nearly perfect. Next to it, she draws a triangle, the edges rounded like that of a finger. (you think)

She proceeds to draw more, a square and a diamond and so on until the entire mirror is covered.

“Why are you drawing me shapes?” you ask sleepily, wiping some moisture off your face.

She flings your towel across the room, landing it over your head.

You laugh tiredly, pulling it off so you can see again. “Thanks. I still don’t get it.”

She leaves. You can tell by how quickly the room heats up to sauna levels. A few moments later, there is a sloppy and erratic knock at the bathroom door. 

You raise your eyebrows skeptically, but open it none-the-less. Floating at eye level was a set of five books, spines toward you that she had used against the door.

You squint at them. The authors names stick out the most to you.

_ Gates, Rowling, Elliot, Andrews, Thompson _

“I don’t…”

You hesitate.

“Wait. Great?”

The books lift up and then fall slightly in what you assume is a nod.

“Great what?”

The books clatter ungracefully to the floor. She walks through you and you shiver, turning to follow her back into the room, where the vanity mirror opens and closes as she waves it at you.

“Great shape?”

It slams closed and you know you’ve won this game of charades.

“Who? Me?”

Her cold air gets closer to you, or maybe your face is just a little hotter than usual. Is she…? She can’t be.

You groan. “You have got to be kidding me. Of all the ghosts I could have ended up with.”

You vigorously towel-dry your hair as you leave the bathroom. “I could have had a vengeful one. Trying to get me out of the apartment,” you mutter.

Throwing the towel onto the bed, you find some underwear to pull on. “Maybe a ghost trying to move on. Sad and mournful.”

You yank a t-shirt over your head, looking around the room and hoping maybe you are catching her eye. “But no, I get a flirty one. This is...great.”

…

If you thought she was flirty before, you were wrong. She has some game. Really small things. Tracing hearts in the flour you inevitably get everywhere while you cook. (you blow it away pretending you don’t see)

Swinging around your lacy underwear in the air whenever you are trying to choose a pair.

Tucking your hair behind your ear when it falls out of your ponytail.

You just roll your eyes and continue on with your day.

But of all the things you do, you do not tell her to stop. It’s not because you like the flirting, you tell yourself. It’s because all the things she does to you or with you are what make her...well, her. And you sort of like knowing her. Her personality. If she stopped doing things, she wouldn’t stop existing, but she’d stop existing  _ to you _ .

You’re not sure where it will lead, but you know this.

Having a flirty ghost roommate is much more complicated than you originally expected.


End file.
